


my lover is a day i can't forget

by cicaronis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bookshop/Café Owner Hannibal, Dessert & Sweets, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hannibal Lecter Hates Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter WAS the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal Lecter is a Mess, Hannibal Speaks French, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Literally a Rom-Com, M/M, Mommy Issues, Possessive Will Graham, Profiler Will, Protective Will Graham, Sassy Will Graham, Slow Build, Someone Help Hannibal Lecter, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide Attempt, Unstable Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Hates Himself, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is a Mess, Will is whipped, Will speaks French, and Latin, dark comedy (if you squint), eventual angst, the author thinks they're funny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicaronis/pseuds/cicaronis
Summary: Hannibal's left the whole "murder people" scene, really, he has. And having Jack Crawford call him in to consult on a case is not how he wanted to celebrate his 5 year anniversary of said retirement. He had no desire to be thrust, rather unceremoniously, at that, back into the lifestyle. It contained nothing but trouble, if a certain pesky profiler was anything to go by. It was, daresay, rude.
Relationships: (one sided) Matthew Brown/Will Graham, (they deserve each other), Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter, Achilles/Patroclus (mentioned), Alana Bloom & Will Graham, Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Bedelia Du Maurier & Hannibal Lecter, Bella Crawford/Jack Crawford, Dr. Frederick Chilton/Freddie Lounds, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. la vita nuova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just realised that "la vita nuova" is an inadvertent reincarnation reference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations at the end. 
> 
> (there's a zeugma in this and i'm so proud of it.)

Will Graham pushes open the heavy wooden door to " _L_ _a_ _V_ _ita Nuova_ " (a building that, despite the graceful and dare he say _jaunty_ sign, was anything but new).

He has, against his better judgement, been coerced into visiting said shop (café, library?) through promises of fresh pastries and simply _exquisite_ (Alana's word, not his. She had accompanied this statement with an absolutely over the top expression of delight.) french coffee.

All he has got to do, according to Crawfish (crayfish, crawford, crawfish, it's all the same to Will), is give the owner a case file and say that Jack had sent him.

Easy-peasy, lemon-squeasy. 

Not.

Entering the intimidatingly atmospheric building is enough to make Will genuinely consider leaving (immediately and with not a single regret), because he can instantaneously understand that he is _so_ _incredibly_ out of his element. 

It's an immaculately designed establishment with deep mahogany flooring that Will is decidedly focused on, as opposed to meeting anyone's eyes and reading the judgement they surely contain (what is this shabby, working-class, rubbish doing in our fine, elitist, secluded paradise?). Good question, what exactly _was_ he doing here?

The answer literally drifts into his path, through the most delightful scent he has maybe ever smelt (don't tell his mother, oh wait, he's never met her, much less tasted her baking).

Ah, yes, free pastries (they'd have to be free, there's no way he can afford anything in this part of town, even the air carries an exorbitant price tag).

The promise of sustenance gives him renewed strength and he manages to raise his eyes and survey the... surprisingly empty premises, well, not quite _empty,_ there are two couples exploring the bookshelves in another room, but they offer no judgement, content to mind their business if he will mind his.

He, of course, will not. Scrutinising the quartet ( _ménage à quatre,_ perhaps?), he decides that one of the couples is not actually a couple at all, but two university students who were probably separated from their much larger group a few hours prior. Not a couple, but the taller girl is painfully in love with the smaller one, who is unfortunately attached to an older man who, from the way she holds herself, likely mistreats her, Will thinks to himself with a sigh. The other duo, however, are a bit more interesting.

Will is just about to attempt at finding out just _how much_ more interesting when he hears a positively _dulcet (sonorous, melodious, mellifluous)_ voice,

"May I provide you with assistance, sir?" the voice asks, with an intonation that tells Will that his polite (mind you) staring at the other customers has absolutely been noticed. 

Lovely.

Will, for the second time since his arrival, is genuinely considering walking out the obnoxiously weighty wooden door and telling Jack Crayfish to deliver his own damn mail. 

Unfortunately for Will, the voice belongs to a body that emanates the delicious sweet scent of fresh baked delicacies and he just cannot bring himself to refuse free food (at this point, he has fully convinced himself that the food will be free despite the fact that no one has even hinted at this _auparavant_ ).

"Sir?" the voice continues, "If you are not a patron, I must regrettably ask you to vacate my premises, as you have been staring at my floor and my habitués for the past half hour." 

Will ignores the last bit, grasping to the most unsettling section, " _my_ premises", he'd said. If _this_ was the owner of the shop, Will was leaving, free food be damned.

Starting out on the wrong foot was an understatement and Will was beginning to think he might've been set up.

The man waits patiently for a response, while Will tries desperately to come up with a decent one, still staring at the blasted wooden floor.

Will turns to face the man, and oh, holy _shit._ ("Who am I looking for?", Will had asked. "He smells like heaven and looks like a Greek god, you'll know." Alana had smirked. "Want me to tell Margot you've got the hots for a rich baker?" Will had shot back, laughing.)

"Um," he states, quite eloquently, before smiling halfheartedly and all but running for the door.

Not today. 

The man (angel?) follows him to the door, looking fairly confused and more than a bit put off, and Will wants nothing more than to just kiss away the worry from his forehead (Wait, what? He absolutely does not).

He manages to thrust the file into the ( _hero, painter, poet, lover, shepherd,_ what the _fuck_?) _man'_ s chest, with a choked out "From Jack", before slipping through the door, shutting it firmly behind him and sinking to the floor in a pathetic attempt to get his traitorous heart under control. 

_Fuck._

_Got to get out of here, he might come outside,_ Will's previously useless brain reminds him.

"And if he _does_ see you here, he'll call the cops, informing them of a odd character he worries might be stalking him, _bien fait_ , Will, you've outdone yourself." He mutters to himself.

Nothing like talking to yourself to convince everyone you're sane.

After regaining his ability to breathe, he pushes himself up and starts jogging to his car (he'd parked a few kilometres off, wanting to enjoy the spring morning. clearly, he's a bloody idiot who's read a touch too much on méliorisme.) 

The cool spring morning has all but vanished, leaving an annoyingly warm early afternoon in its stead. 

_"Merde, j'suis vraiment con comme un balai, eh?"_ He laughs, cursing the sun and his own foolishness. 

* * *

He makes it to the next street over before his stomach rudely interrupts his internal dialogue (wherein he was _finally_ giving Jack Crayon a piece of his mind) with a sound that resembles a thunderstorm.

Will tries to remind himself that he's already made an absolute fool of himself and returning to la _Vita Nuova_ begging for scraps is not likely to fix anything.

He truly does try, but there's something to be said for resilience and his legs are taking him back to the shop before he comes to terms with the fact that he apparently has no shame.

He finds himself embarrassingly eager to see the man again (his golden eyes, molten like ichor, sparkling as a king's ill fitting armour), to hear his smooth, operatic voice as he (dials 911, reporting a suspicious customer) raises a golden (like the gates to paradise, gold foil paintings) eyebrow in askance.

* * *

Standing in front of the door for a second time, Will sighs, _"Ceci là c'est la raison que Mama m'abandonné."_

Pushing away his doubts and the strands of hair that sweat had plastered to his forehead, Will makes his way into the edifice, pausing only momentarily to let his sun-blinded eyes adjust to the blessed dim lighting. 

Will notes that the couples (well, the couple and the piner with the pined) have left, though a few stragglers have replaced them. 

It's such a lovely place, he's pleasantly surprised to find it so nearly vacated. If he hadn't burned his (nonexistent) bridge with the owner, he might have taken to frequenting it.

As if summoned, the lovely place's even lovelier owner, clears his throat (gracefully, how does one clear his throat _gracefully_?)

"Will Graham, is it?" He says, quite gently, as if unwilling to disturb the serene atmosphere, the reverent hush that comes free with religious locations but has to be earned everywhere else (Will has no doubts that this establishment has well earned its sense of mystère).

Will decides right then and there that he will do whatever it takes to hear his name uttered from this man's lips (with such articulation, there is a familiarity to it) as many times as fate will allow. 

"In the flesh." Will replies with a insouciant air he does not feel, and offers a smile as an apology for the dishonesty that he, for some reason, knows the man will identify. 

"Hannibal Lecter, pleased to more formally make your acquaintance. I must apologise for my temperament earlier, I was not aware of our..." here Hannibal ( _"_ _Hannibal_ ," Will tastes the name on his lips and finds it _quite_ pleasing) pauses, as if searching for a word (though Will doubts if he has ever been at a non-strategic loss for words) "mutual friend." He finishes, with a small smile that just barely touches his lips, but finds itself fully in his eyes.

Will manages not to bark out a loud and incredibly out of place laugh at his words, calling Jack his friend would be an overstatement, at best.

"Ah, yes. My dear friend and colleague Jack Clifford," at this, Hannibal raises an immaculately arched brow, taking in Will's mocking tone.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, dear Will?" Hannibal asks, suddenly seeming very fascinated by the direction their conversation was taking.

"Something like that." Will laughs, rubbing his hand against his mouth awkwardly, not quite comfortable with how much he likes Hannibal saying his name preceded by an endearment.

There was something decidedly balletic about Lecter's next movements as he smiled again, extending an arm in the direction of the connecting pâtisserie,

"Come, I have just prepared _Šimtalapis_ and other _viennoiseries,_ and it seems we have much to discuss."

Will would have just as well followed him had he said, "Come, I have prepared the door to Hell, you're going to be burned alive while I watch and drink expensive wine," so he was more than happy to oblige, despite not having a clue what he was agreeing to.

* * *

The pâtisserie is as different from the bookshop as a room can be, the juxtaposition is almost comedic in its intensity. Where the bookshop was dark, cold, and moody, the pâtisserie is warm and bright, large windows with sunlight streaming in and yellow flowered wallpaper as opposed to dark murals and shuttered skylights. 

Will instantly feels...at home. 

Hannibal gestures at a seat in front of the display. "Make yourself comfortable, I shall rejoin you presently." He murmurs, disappearing into a small storage room of sorts. 

Will does just that, sitting and staring at all the treats like a kid in a candy shop. They did, in fact, look too pretty to eat, but if Hannibal didn't mind, Will wasn't going to let that stop him.

Hannibal soon returns, wearing an apron and a soft smile, " _T'es comme un p'tit enfant, Will. J'ai vu cette expression plusieurs fois, mais jamais sur le visage de quelqu’un si vieux_."

" _Veuillez m’excuser, vieillard, peut être qu'il y a quelque chose qui ne va pas avec mes oreilles, parce-que je sais que je n'ai pas juste entendu ça._" Will retorts, (mostly) feigning offence. 

" _Ah, oui. C'est souvent l’ouïe qui part le premier."_ Hannibal cheerfully agrees, positively beaming, as he leans across the counter, dramatically brushing the back of his palm against his forehead.

" _Connard!_ " Will practically gasps, and Hannibal lets out a delightful little mirthful laugh, causing Will to consider quitting his job to dedicate the rest of his life towards the pursuit of making Hannibal Lecter sound so blessedly _happy_.

" _Bien_ ," Hannibal says with smiling eyes, "You are hungry, _p'tit_?"

Will rests his chin on folded arms and peers into the medley of pastries, nodding his head vigorously. 

" _Ça! C'est quoi_?" Will asked, admittedly quite childishly, pointing at what looked to be crystal ball of chocolate.

" _Bossche bol, c'est du chocolat avec de la chantilly, parfait pour un p'tit garçon comme toi._ " Hannibal teases, removing the treat from its glass enclosure and placing it on a exquisite piece of china that Will honestly would not recommend he be trusted with. 

" _Donc, j'suis un p'tit garçon ou un vieil homme? Décide toi!_ " Will responds in turn, trying not to chuckle and failing miserably.

" _Oui_." says Hannibal, simply. "You are vast, you contain multitudes. An old man hides behind a young boy's smile."

"Hmm." Will replied, eloquent as ever, escaping into his pastry. Biting into it, he discovered it was not dissimilar to what a sweet cloud might be.

Light as air and barely passing through his lips before dissolving into mist. Will closes his eyes, pure bliss.

Hannibal attempts, bless him, to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit, but Will immediately opens his eyes and glares at him.

"Something funny?" He pointedly asks around bites.

Hannibal manages to compose himself enough to say, "It's simply that you are treating a remarkably rudimentary dish as if it is your very saving grace, I apologise for my inappropriate reaction," before convulsing into laughter again. 

"Some of us appreciate the little things in life, Lecter." Will sniffs, casting a withering glance in the other man's direction. 

He nods, attempting to gain control of his descent into Ville du Rire, France, covering his face with both hands.

Will thinks of a time, only minutes past, when he'd dedicated the rest of his days to making the man who is now wiping tears from elegant eyes with elegant fingers laugh. Oh, to be young again, he ponders with great melancholy. At least, he realises, hearing his lovely laugh won't be as hard of a feat as he had once thought.

* * *

What feels like hours later, after Will has been trying to calm the other man down by saying a whole list of things that, without fail, cause his breath to hitch and his shoulders to shake harder, (truly, Will remarks to himself, it's as if he's never laughed before in his life) Hannibal manages to look at Will without losing his composure. Will would love to say that he had been strong and kept his withering gaze at full blast throughout the whole affair, but in truth, something about the sheer unadulterated glee from such an imposing, refined man had broken him, and half-way through, he'd started cackling along with him. 

A customer had nearly walked in at one point, but Will had regarded him with such an intensely vitriolic look that he had left before Hannibal could remove his hands from his eyes and notice him.

When Hannibal _finalement_ regained his wits about him, he shot Will an almost nervous look that Will decided he didn't like at all, not one bit.

Coming to the conclusion that teasing him about it would not only be in poor taste but counter-intuitive, as well, he turns his attention back to the pastries.

"What's that?" Pointing at a row of small golden finger-esque treats.

" _Cannulicchi_." 

"That?" Another finger shaped pastry, this one with varied toppings, _cioccolato, fragola, lampone_ , the papers read.

" _Éclair_ _s_." A horrified look in his direction tells Will he probably should have know that.

"Can I have one?"

"You may."

"Chocolate?"

"You truly do enjoy the _simple_ things, Will."

"Choke on a cannoli, Hannibal."

Hannibal lets out a soft laugh despite himself, clearly not used to people addressing him in such a manner.

"You've been a very rude boy, Will. What's to be done about that?"

"Hunger makes one very inconsiderate, Hannibal."

"If hunger is your ailment, I have no doubt that we can remedy this situation." the man responded, glancing at Will over steepled fingers. "Though I must warn you, whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude."

" _That_ looks remarkably rude, Hannibal. Do with it what you must." Will whispered, pointing at a particularly delectable looking sweet.

"Ah, _mille-feuille_. Yes, quite rude, you must eat it, then." 

"If you insist."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's something so personal about hans calling will, "p'tit"
> 
> translations//
> 
> "ménage à quatre" - relationship of four/foursome.  
> -  
> "auparavant" is before.  
> -  
> "Merde, j'suis vraiment con comme un balai, eh?" equivalent of: "Fuck, I'm as dumb as a door-nail."  
> -  
> "Ceci là c'est la raison que Mama m'abandonné." - "This here? this is the reason my mother left me."  
> -  
> "Come, I have just prepared Šimtalapis and other viennoiseries..." - Šimtalapis is a Lithuanian pastry, and viennoiseries are a type of french pastry!   
> -  
> "T'es comme un p'tit enfant, Will. J'ai vu cette expression plusieurs fois, mais jamais sur le visage de quelqu’un si vieux." - "You're just like a little child, Will. I've seen this expression many times, but never on the face of someone so old."
> 
> "Veuillez m’excuser, vieillard, peut être qu'il y a quelque chose qui ne va pas avec mes oreilles, parce-que je sais que je n'ai pas juste entendu ça." - "Please do excuse me, old man, perhaps something's gone wrong with my ears, because I know I did /not/ just hear that."
> 
> "Ah, oui. C'est souvent l’ouïe qui part le premier." - "Ah, yes. It is often the hearing that goes first."
> 
> "Connard!" - "Asshole/Dick/etc."  
> -  
> "Ça! C'est quoi?" - "This! What is it?"
> 
> "Bossche bol, c'est du chocolat avec de la chantilly, parfait pour un p'tit garçon comme toi." - "Bossche bol, it's chocolate with whipped cream, perfectly suited for a little boy like you." 
> 
> "Donc, j'suis un p'tit garçon ou un vieil homme? Décide toi!" - "So! Am I a little boy or an old man? Make up your mind!"  
> -  
> "finalement" is finally.  
> -  
> "mille-feuille" means a thousand papers/layers. it's a layered cake of sorts.


	2. good god, you're a sweet thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of their first meeting.
> 
> will's posted in france, because why the hell not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will you love this part of me?
> 
> translations in end notes.

* * *

Once Hannibal was convinced that Will had been suitably educated on the many, many different types of French confections, he had agreed to offer his preliminary insights regarding the case.

Lecter had appeared understandably upset while looking through the case file, but not necessarily for the same reasons most people might. He'd raged about the lack of finesse, the immaturity of the killer, the shakiness of his hands and the foolish, foolish inebriation that he must have been experiencing during the latter hunts (they _were_ hunts to this killer, and this was a sentiment that Hannibal had picked up on, Will had noticed it at well, but had not expected Hannibal to do so).

The reason that Jack Crawford had sent for Hannibal Lecter had become painfully clear. He was like Will, only _different._ All that Will could see, the amusement of their unsub, his glorification over his unworthy victims, his acts of mercy, Hannibal saw them, understood them, and _scoffed_.

He noticed things Will didn't, where the blades hesitated over and through skin, not out of remorse or anxiousness, but out of thrill, wanting to draw out the moment for as long as possible, relishing the fear in his victims' eyes. 

Hannibal could say these things, note them with pure disgust laden upon his visage, again, Will wanted to smooth the worry between his eyebrows, leaving him smiling, laughing if he was lucky. At first, Will had been a bit jealous, he wished he could feel disgust when looking at these murder cases, but unless the killer had felt remorse or revulsion at his actions, that was a luxury Will simply wasn't afforded. Such was the curse of his empathy (which in and of itself felt like a curse, truly a lose-lose situation). Will acclimated to the murderer's mindset, and until the case was solved (and sometimes not until long after) he would not feel the familiar wave of revulsion that came when he returned to himself. Hannibal was not afflicted with such qualms, it seemed. And so _did_ it seem, until Will more closely watched the once calm, now positively febrile man relive the murderer's crimes. For a second, nothing more, Hannibal's eyes had gleamed, had _seen,_ had _become_ the killer as Will so often did. Though he had immediately recoiled with such vehemence that Will had mentally cursed Jack again for bringing the poor man into this, Will knew that they were more similar than he previously could have dreamt. They had the same decidedly _not_ _tasty_ thoughts. 

Will considers mentioning this to the disgruntled Hannibal, decides against it, says it anyway, whispering it with a humourless smile over a truly exquisite (Alana had been right, he has to admit, expression and all) café noisette.

Hannibal meets his eyes with a distracted hum of agreement. Not tasty at all, it seems. Inconvenient as it was quick becoming, Will is realising he has a deep hatred for anything and anyone that causes the other man even the slightest displeasure. Their killer had already taken the lives of over a dozen ostensibly unconnected victims, but all Will can think about is Hannibal's furrowed brows and quiet sighs he unconsciously emits as he allows his mind to take him places he's strategically kept it from for years. 

All done, Will decides. _Accidentally_ knocking his teacup over, letting it soak the file as Hannibal effortlessly removes himself from its ill-fated trajectory. 

As the teacup rolls from the counter, neither man moving to stop it, and shatters on the previously spotless floor, Will feels uneasy, as if through one action he's set into motion a series of events he cannot yet understand.

Wary of meeting Hannibal's eyes, everything in his building was ridiculously expensive, after all, Will bends as if to pick up the shards.

Stopped by a quiet hiss, "Leave it." 

Not angry, somehow awed instead. 

This gives Will the courage to glance up at him, and empathy be damned, Will has no idea whatsoever what's crossing the other man's mind.

An undecipherable medley of emotions veiled by a very nearly impenetrable mask. Will can see the storm beneath, but for the life of him, he cannot interpret it.

Hannibal comes from behind the counter and kneels beside Will, close enough that he can feel the sweet warmth of his breath, and simply stares at the shattered porcelain.

Will, despite his previous and reoccurring blunders, knows when to keep his mouth shut, so he listens to the unevenness of Hannibal's breathing and waits for him to speak.

"I remember this." He eventually murmurs, running his fingers over the shards. 

"Something broken, never to be fixed. This teacup will never come back together again and neither..." here he looks up at Will, really looks at him, searching, peering, prying, dreading, hoping, and sighs. 

"Neither shall we." A sad, somehow ancient tone.

Will reaches out to touch him, to run a hand through his hair, to soothe his _grieving_ form, but Hannibal recoils with such force, dragging his hand against a shard. 

They both watch the blood drip from his hand, transfixed. It's a breathless moment, broken harshly by the sound of footsteps.

Hannibal rises, graceful as always, cradling his injured hand, and disappears from the room without another word.

Will rests in his prone position for a bit longer in a state of contemplation, and scrambles to his feet when a young woman enters.

She takes in the scene with widening eyes and clearly considers leaving, but Will's own obvious nerves seem to embolden her.

"Is Dr. Lecter not here?" She asks, a soft inquisition.

"In the pantry." Calls a voice from, presumably, the pantry.

"Oh!" At this, she brightens, walking with purpose towards said room.

Clearly, Will notes, she must be a frequent visiter.

Hannibal meets her halfway, hand bandaged and holding an assortment of baking materials.

"How was your day, _chérie?"_ He asks, pausing, to Will's surprise, to kiss her on the cheek. 

"Long," she states, lowering her head to his shoulder, "very long."

Hannibal pats her gently with his free hand and whispers something Will cannot hear.

Will returns his gaze to the mess on the floor, feeling as out of place as he had when first arriving.

"Ah, where are my manners today? I must admit, dear Will, your visit has rendered me _quite_ disconcerted. This is Abigail, my _protégée_." Hannibal says, showing no sign whatsoever of being disoriented in the least.

"I'm his _daughter,_ not his _protégée_." Abigail interrupts with a smile that holds no secrets, and Will feels a pang in his chest.

"Why in the world can you not be both?" Hannibal questions with raised brows.

"You were my _protégée_ before becoming my daughter, after all" He reminds her with a benevolent smile.

"Yes," she replies without missing a beat, "and you were an artist before becoming a doctor, yet you're addressed as _Dr._ Lecter."

"Though I am both." Hannibal finishes for her.

"My apologies, Will, this is my _daughter_ , Abigail." He corrects with a smile, placing an affection hand on her shoulder.

Will offers a hollow smile he worries comes off as a grimace, but if it does, neither Lecter mentions it.

" _Mielasis,_ this is Will Graham, an associate of an old colleague, and wonderful company in his own right. If," here Hannibal gestures grandly at the floor, "a bit _maladroit_."

"You're not the first unwitting messenger Crawford has sent after _Tėvelis,_ " she nods with a knowing smile, "but he wooed you with _saldumynai ir pyragaičiai_ and you couldn't resist, hm?" Abigail laughs, regarding the _several_ empty plates.

"Guilty." Will admits with a much more genuine smile. 

Hannibal looks between the two of them, and deciding they will not die without his ever-watchful eye, takes his leave to the pantry, emerging with a broom that Will decides probably does have a higher IQ than he, if only by association with its owner.

Hannibal sweeps up the glass without looking down once and disposes of it just as efficiently. Careful to avoid his bandage, he washes his hands before busying himself behind the counter.

* * *

In the meantime, Abigail has helped herself to a selection of darling pastries she calls _petit fours,_ "Try one!" She exclaims, offering him a pink and yellow layered affair, beaming as he enthusiastically hums in approval.

 _"Je les ai faits!"_ She declares, proudly. " _Papa's_ been teaching me _comment faire les macarons et les autres p'tit choses comme ça."_ She adds, slipping in and out of English with ease. 

_"Vraiment? Si jeune et t'as déjà chassé Papa de la cuisine, incroyable."_ Will remarks, genuinely impressed.

" _Ah, pas si jeune, laisse-moi tranquille, j'ai presque vingt-et-uns ans_." She objects, still young enough to take offense at being called young.

" _Presque vingt-et-un ans?! Merde! une vielle dame, en vérité._ "

"Don't curse in front of the children, dear Will." Hannibal interjects, shooting him a displeased, but long-suffering look. 

_"Papa! j'suis pas un enfant!"_ Abigail protests halfheartedly.

 _"Comme je l'ai dit, tu seras toujours ma petite."_ Hannibal maintains, as if they'd had this conversations many times before.

Will hides a sad smile by rubbing a hand across his mouth roughly, _god_ , what he wouldn't give to have something like this. A family.

As if on cue, Will's mobile vibrates in his pocket, chirping a generic ringtone that Will really needs to change but honestly can't be bothered to.

Hannibal's eyes flicker to him as he awkwardly excuses himself from his seat, and if he is bothered by the interruption, the only sign is the minuscule tightening of his jaw that, Will tells himself, could have been caused by anything.

_Please don't be Jack, please don't be Jack, please don't be--_

The caller is Alana, thankfully.

"Will, I've had to pick up after your menagerie for what feels like years while you get lectured on the ethics of indulgence by Bacchus himself, how will you ever repay me?" Alana informs him, indignation and amusement equally apparent in her tone.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something." Will croons into the phone, cradling it between his shoulder and ear as he glances at the man, or god, in question.

"God, I can practically smell the pastries through the screen, bring me something nice or you'll be in need of a new dog-sitter presently." 

"Is that- Is that a threat, Alana?"

"A promise. Something for Margot and the little one as well," Alana's voice becomes muffled as she asks a question to someone next to her, "Margot wants éclairs, an assorted selection," here Margot interrupts, "Make sure there's at least two raspberry ones, Will, this must be the only bakery outside France with decent raspberry éclairs. God only knows what'd I do without Hannibal Lecter." She dramatically sighs, and Will cannot fully tell whether she's joking or not.

"Noted, but Margot, just a reminder...this _is_ France." 

"Only bakery _inside_ France then, Will, darling, you're focusing on the wrong things, _n'oublie pas mes éclairs_..." Margot trails off as Alana regains control of the device.

"Morgan wants, what's that, honey?" Alana drifts off, speaking to someone away from the phone again, "He wants the 'bunny-buns', Will."

"I am not asking Hannibal Lecter for 'bunny-buns', Alana."

"I can pursue legal action in regards to you inflicting undue pain and suffering upon my son, I may not win but I _will_ leave you even more _fauché_ than before."

"Then again! What's a little bunny-bun between friends?"

"There's the spirit."

Will mentally reminds himself to consider aligning with poorer personalities.

There is a brief pause wherein Alana seems to remember that Will had not been sent there for the délectables alone.

"Is he...willing to consult on the case?" She asks hesitantly, treats, for a moment, forgotten.

"Ah, I'm not sure, Alana. You should have seen him when he was perusing the file. He looked...withdrawn, almost. Not from the case, but from himself, as if he was afraid to let the images penetrate his new life. You said he quit after some psycho went after him?"

"Matthew Brown. We never caught him, but Lecter identified him from a previous mugshot. As soon as he recovered, he left Baltimore and moved to France, left everything and everyone behind."

"Mm. Think we can convince Jack to let him off the hook?"

"Nope." Alana responds, popping the 'p'.

"Yeah, probably not."

"It's the thought that counts, Will." Alana reassures him, the auditory equivalent of a pat on the back.

Will glanced back at the _pâtissier_ , who was leaning over his daughter's shoulder, guiding her with gentle instructions as she delicately iced what looked like an unnecessarily complex miniature layer cake.

"What's the story with Abigail?" He asks before he can stop himself.

Alana hums in thought, considering what would be appropriate to disclose.

"Abusive biological father, killed him in self-defence. Hannibal took her in, being a psychiatrist and all, I can't imagine a better place for her." 

"Jesus." Will breathes out, looking back at the two, bonded by trauma, an affinity for haute-cuisine, and God knows what else.

"Indeed. When I said he left everything and everyone behind, I suppose I might have mentioned her, but I wasn't aware you'd met."

"I like her, Alana. Life, to her, is a gift, and she revels in it. It's a refreshing thing to witness."

"She seems happy then?"

"Tragedy suits them. There are wounds too old, too deep for Lecter to heal from, but he hides them well. From a past life, I'd wager. I keep catching glimpses of him, Alana. Of _all_ of him. There's something about this iteration of him, something hungry. You know the stories about star-crossed lovers, fated to lose each other in each life?" 

Alana gives a vague sound of acquiescence. 

"Lecter's half of one such bond. There's that brokenness in his eyes. You're meant to forget your past lives, but he can't forget. He might've been a god. Gods never forget."

"Gods never forget." Alana repeats, with a deep and aching sigh. 

"You and your empathy, Will Graham." She says softly, a fond tone.

Will laughs awkwardly, before continuing, against his better judgement. "He hasn't found his soulmate yet, he...doesn't want to. Abigail...has. There's a sparkle in her eyes, it's how she forgets. She thought she was broken, doomed, but finding her soulmate offered a renaissance, and she's flourished."

"She was her birth father's soulmate."

"But he wasn't hers." Will concludes grimly.

"He punished her for it, blamed her. Told her no one would ever love her as much as he did. That he was all she would ever have." Alana says, voice low as if she wanted her words to be lost in the air.

"Thank the gods that it doesn't work that way." 

"A small kindness, but a kindness nonetheless." Alana concedes. 

Will quickly abandons the subject, moving back to Hannibal. "Remember how I said Hannibal doesn't want to find his soulmate?"

"Yes, though I must admit that I don't quite understand how you came to such a conclusion. He's nothing if not a lover, and everyone wants to find their mate, no?"

"No." Will states.

"He never touches the unmated, you haven't noticed?"

An extended silence.

"God, you're right." Alana breathes out, shocked.

"You met him after meeting Margot, so it's natural that it never affected your interactions. He wears layered clothing as to never risk a chance encounter, and with the unmated, he avoids physical contact like the plague. 

"Why would he...?" Alana trails off, unable to comprehend wilfully depriving yourself of the most sought after experience known to man.

"He _remembers,_ Alana. Not everything, of course, but I'd reckon that he remembers the pain of searing loss, a hundred times over. In order for his collective psyche to have formed such a reaction to it, he must have been through _Hell_ in a past life."

Alana lets out a noise that is half sob, half whimper. 

This is not empathy, it is fear. She is imagining herself or her lover going through such duress. Will finds himself disturbingly upset by this. She is sullying Hannibal's suffering with her own projections. _What?_

"Living without his mate is better than losing them again. He finishes, dropping the subject.

Alana is quiet, thoughtful.

"You might be good for each other. Both unmated, cursed with knowledge you never asked for." 

Will ignores this. "They say that you take something from your soulmate in each rebirth, so that one day, you'll become wholly them and they'll become wholly you." "Would I recognise myself? If I saw my soulmate, would I recognise myself in him?" Will does not notice his choice of pronoun, though it is one he has never utilised before. Always "them" or on rare, hopeful occasions, "she". 

Alana, sweet Alana, notices. 

Alana, sweet, sweet Alana, does not mention it.

Will starts to say something else when Hannibal glances back at him, questioning. It has been a lengthy call and Will longs to return to him.

Why does he long to return to him? Why is the blood rushing to his head? Alana calls his name through the phone, "Will?"

Will has dropped the mobile, he does not hear her. _His hands are on the sides of his head, he is screaming._

_"YouarewonderfulYouarewonderfulYouarewonderful Oh, I am not going to die, am I? He will not separate us. We have been so happy.Wehavebeensohappysohappyhewillnotseparateuswehavebeensohappy Je suis toute à vous I am only yours I regret that I should leave this world without again beholding him. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. I love you. I want you to know my last thoughts are of you. Thus with a kiss I die."_

_He is screaming, "please where is my love?" He is screaming and blood pours from his lips as he screams "Wehavebeensohappysohappysohappysohappyyouarewonderfuljesuistouteavous-" and suddenly Hannibal is there and he does not touch him, does not wipe the blood from his mouth, does not touch not grasp his trembling figure, he just falls to the floor in front of Will and it is enough because he sees him and the blood crawls back down his throat and the screams are swallowed like pills, dry, and he_

"Will?"

Hannibal is standing a few steps away from him, looking concerned. "You've dropped your phone." He states slowly, though it is painfully obvious that the mobile is not his cause for concern.

"Are you alright, Will?" At this, he moves closer, at this, Will steps away. 

Will does not open his mouth, if he does, the screams will escape again, and this time nothing will stop them.

He closes his eyes, shuddering. Feels a hand hesitantly caressing his hair, a mother's comfort. The touch means nothing to him. To cry is to laugh.

Fabric grazes against his cheek, it is a gloved hand, he leans to it.

"Talk to me?" A perfect request.

Had he not asked, Will would not have told him, had he forced him, Will would not have told him.

" _You are won-_ No!" Will ducks away from the gentle, gloved hand, eyes still firmly shut. 

"A memory." Will manages. "A thousand memories."

A sigh. Will opens his eyes.

Hannibal looks _so_ tired. 

"I think I know what you mean."

Hannibal picks up the fallen phone, notes the caller id, smiles wanly. 

"She will be very worried, sweet Will."

Will ignores this, "You've felt it before, the memories?"

Hannibal turns towards him, ages a million years before his eyes, "The deaths." He whispers. 

Will nods feverishly, "The deaths." He repeats, savouring the words. 

"I sometimes wonder whether they belong to me or to..." Hannibal breaks off, unable to finish. "I can't decide which eventuality is worse."

"These were mine." Will says with conviction, drinking in the look of relief on Hannibal's face.

"I hope they are mine." Hannibal mutters, somehow seeming ever so small, just for a moment.

"You wore gloves when you touched me." Will states, needing to move past the unbelievable heaviness.

"One can never be too sure." A bitter smile accompanies his words.

Hannibal lowers himself to the floor, leaning his head against the wall, tilting his chin to keep Will in his line of sight.

Will casts a quick glance around for Abigail, but she's already gone, his eye catches on the windows, the sun is lowering. _How long was he out?_

Will lets out a shaky breath, Hannibal just watches him.

"You were not yourself." Hannibal puts forth. 

"No." Will replies.

"It's worse for him." Will whispers, joining Hannibal on the floor, suddenly too weak to stand.

"Hmm?" 

Will just shakes his head, it hurts too much to speak.

"When I was just a young boy, I once visited a museum and saw a painting of a man mourning his lost lover. I do not believe I was meant to see it. The memories have haunted me ever since."

"It was you?"

"Yes. I believe that to be true." 

"The mourning man."

Hannibal doesn't answer, that's okay, Will knows.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Do you miss him?"

"More than _anything_." Hannibal nearly growls, and there is a flash of something so _holy_ within his eyes, Will has to look away. It's not meant for him.

"But you would reject him in this life." Will murmurs, and is not his voice.

"Better not to lose him."

"Mm."

Will wants to cry, he has never felt such an _ache,_ he is emptied of himself.

"Won't you take him back? Will you let his love go to waste?" a primordial longing apparent in his voice.

And Hannibal looks _angry_. "His love may rot that my soul does not." A hiss, Hannibal is _enraged_. 

"You blame him," Will realises, and Will is fucking _livid_.

Their gazes lock and for a moment, their deaths are etched in a thousand stones and the bakery is bathed in blood.

Into the charged air, Will's mobile rings and they both jump, and suddenly they are themselves again.

This time it _is_ Jack.

"Hello?"

"Tell Lecter Bella wants her regular." Jack states curtly before promptly hanging up.

Hannibal raises a brow as Will stares blankly at his phone.

"Bella wants her regular?" Will relates to him, obediently.

"Ah, sweet Bella. I will arrange it for her immediately." Hannibal smiles, visibly brightening at the sound of her name.

Will tastes blood as he grinds his teeth into the side of his cheek. Will likes Bella. _Sweet_ Bella. An image flashes in his head of sweet Bella strung up upon a windmill, limbs tied between the blades. The winds blow and blood coats his face. Sweet blood. These are _not_ his thoughts. 

Will shakes his head like wet dog, willing the thoughts to leave him be, and follows Hannibal back towards the pastry counter.

Hannibal hums as he delicately prepares a parcel filled with sweets for _sweet_ Bella.

Will is going to _kill_ him, insufferable bastard. Rip his throat out, drink his blood. He belongs to _hi_ -. _Not his thoughts!_

_Not his thoughts._

Hannibal must have noticed something about his disturbing internal monologue, because he holds out a _bossche bol_ in offering. "Perhaps an antidote to thoughts that are _not tasty,_ as you say?" 

The thing whose thoughts keep popping up in Will's head smiles and informs him that his previous thought had been quite tasty, indeed.

_"Gratias, dulcissime."_

Hannibal drops the plate, Will catches it. That was _not_ his voice.

"What did I just say?" Will enquires, biting into his new favourite delicacy. 

Hannibal looks at him witheringly and leans against one arm. "Don't say words you don't understand, William."

"Don't call me 'William', and we might have a deal."

"I didn't mean to, anyway. My brain and my mouth have communication issues occasionally." Will continues, delighting in the reaction he'd inadvertently caused.

"You do not understand Latin." not a question, but Will thought he'd answer anyway.

"Nope." Will admits with a cheerful pop.

 _"Mendax."_ The voice that is not his reminds him.

Hannibal's eyes catch Will's again, narrowing. 

Will just smiles as the thing inside his head informs the psychiatrist in front of him that a new patient has arrived.

_"Baciami."_

"That, _mio caro_ , is Italian and entirely inappropriate." Hannibal remarks drily. 

"Είναι όλα ελληνικά για μένα!" Will manages, positively beaming.

 _"Visiškas kvailys..."_ Hannibal mutters under his breath.

"Truce?" Will inquires, holding out a chocolate smudged hand.

Hannibal pointedly ignores his outstretched offering, but his eyes lose their sharpness and he falls back into his benevolent host persona.

As Hannibal finishes Bella's order, Will remembers Alana's own requests and clears his throat, unsure of how to approach it.

"Alana called."

"I am aware." Hannibal points out, eyes flickering to Will's briefly.

"Margot says you make the best raspberry éclairs inside (or outside) France." Will hints, laying his head on the counter.

"Ah, éclairs for the heiress and a surprise for her wife, I presume."

"Precisely." 

"And the little one, sweet Morgan?" Hannibal asks innocently, turning from where he'd been boxing Margot's éclairs to give Will his full attention.

Will narrows his eyes, _he knows_. "Oh, Morgan? He wanted _something_ , but I can't quite remember what. It's escaping me." Will answers, drily.

"Shame. Who can be blamed for such a slip of the mind? One must only hope the boy survives this insurmountable loss. It may be the single identifiable instance in his life when he does not get what he desires. Pray that he does not hold grudges, Will." Hannibal monologues, face skilfully devoid of humour.

" _Bunny-buns._ " Will grits out.

"Sincerest apologies, my sweet, but I'm afraid my attentions were elsewhere, would you be so kind as to repeat that, please?" 

"Choke on a cannoli." Will says sweetly. 

Hannibal smiles graciously, "My culinary cuniculus treats are ever so popular with the children, but they do seem fond of re-imagining the original names." 

"I can't imagine why." Will nonchalantly says, reaching for one of Margot's treasured éclairs, despite Hannibal's horrified spluttering.

Hannibal gives him a look that is indisputably devilish. "Will, for a man who has worked his way through half the pastries in a notably high-end pâtisserie without a wallet in his possession, you are _rather_ discourteous."

Will finishes the stolen treat, "I am simply taking advantage of your admirable hospitality, Dr. Lecter. Certainly, you can't fault a man for that."

"With any other customer, I would suggest a tab or an arrest." 

"Shall you be opening up a tab with me, dear Will?" Hannibal asks with twinkling eyes. 

"I would much prefer to keep this," Will hushes his voice as he sweeps a hand over the counter, "off the record."

"And I would much prefer," Hannibal counters, "to not go out of business because of a pesky profiler who never learnt to bake."

"This is libel! I could have you sued!"

"Yes, how _is_ Alana doing?"

"That's cold, Hannibal."

"I have had patients in my office whose only trauma was losing a Verger-Bloom related court case."

"Sounds like they might have had pre-existing conditions, Doctor. Consider homophobia or perhaps the _horror_ of losing to a woman."

Hannibal just shakes his head as he stacks the orders, "You have been altogether fascinating today, Will. Perhaps we can continue this discussion another time."

"Are you kicking me out?" Will gasps, mouth agape.

"Yes, it is half past eight and I must prepare supper. Your dogs await you, do they not?"

Will considers being shocked at his deduction before glancing down at what was essentially a fur coat of dog hair. Understandable inference.

"Come, I will walk you to your car." Hannibal smiles, transferring the boxes from the counter to Will's hands.

* * *

Will exits the establishment through the bakery's back door and sits on the steps while Hannibal closes shop.

He feels content, not blissful or euphoric, but a sweet and peaceful feeling. He wants to bottle it, keep it close to him always. 

When Hannibal joins him, turning to lock the door behind him, Will allows himself to dream that they are simply a couple heading home after work.

Not a traumatised psychiatrist and self loathing profiler whose paths converged to discuss a case, and truly, nothing more.

There was something that felt so wrong about going home alone, Will realises as they walk to his car in a companionable silence.

"Do you always park so far from your intended destination?" Hannibal asks after they've been walking for the better part of an hour.

"Cannoli, Hannibal."

"Hmm?"

"Choke on it."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you like this chapter, let me know. i might rewrite it if the consensus calls for it.  
> abigail wasn't a planned character, but she's sweet.
> 
> all comments are appreciated!
> 
> will's break is full of the last words of lovers!
> 
> Lithuanian/  
> mielasis is a lithuanian endearment meaning sweetheart, i think.  
> "saldumynai ir pyragaičiai" sweets and pastries.  
> "Visiškas kvailys..." An absolute fool.  
> French/  
> Je les ai faits! I made them. "...comment faire les macarons et les autres p'tit choses comme ça." how to make macaroons and other little things like that.  
> "Vraiment? Si jeune et t'as déjà chassé Papa de la cuisine, incroyable." Really? so young and already chasing your father from the kitchen, amazing.  
> "Ah, pas si jeune, laisse-moi tranquille, j'ai presque vingt-et-uns ans."Not so young, leave me be, I'm nearly twenty-one.  
> "Presque vingt-et-un ans?! Merde! une vielle dame, en vérité." Nearly twenty-one, shit! an old woman, truly.  
> "Papa! j'suis pas un enfant!" Dad, I'm not a kid!  
> "Comme je l'ai dit, tu seras toujours ma petite." Like I've said, you'll always be my little one.  
> "n'oublie pas mes éclairs." don't forget my eclairs.  
> Latin/  
> "Gratias, dulcissime." Thank you, my sweet.  
> "Mendax." Liar.  
> Italian/  
> "Baciami." Kiss me.  
> "Mio caro" My dear.  
> Greek/  
> Είναι όλα ελληνικά για μένα! It's all Greek to me. (the peak of humour, in my opinion.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> domestic murder wives because we deserve it.

Several weeks have passed and Will's sat in the main Verger kitchen eating a bowl of over-expensive muesli with honey. There's nothing like the taste of dried cardboard with bee vomit to start the day off right. 

"Off the counter, Will. The counter is for cats and actually, the cats aren't meant to be up there either." Alana greets him, walking into the kitchen to grab Morgan's lunchbox and a cup of coffee.

"Meow." He mutters unconvincingly as she brushes past him on her way out the door.

Alana just rolls her eyes with a smile, pausing in the doorway to kiss her wife briefly, "I'll take Morgan to _jardin d'enfants_ if you'll pick him up. I have to work late." She informs her apologetically. 

"Not too late, I hope." Margot calls as Alana smooths down Morgan's unruly curls with a distracted hand. "We have dinner with the De Villiers, remember?" She continues, leaning down to kiss Morgan on both cheeks. "Do be good, darling."

"Ah, the De Villiers. _Ça va aller_ , I should be done by 7." Alana reassures her, glancing down at her watch, "Okay, I've got to dash, love you." Blowing a kiss as she drags a much less excited Morgan out the door. 

Margot breezes into the kitchen, resplendent in a variegated silk robe, "Will, you look like shit." She lifts herself onto the counter beside him. "You okay?"

Will glances at her. "I've had better days."

"I gathered." She points at his bowl, "You hate Alana's cereal."

Staring dejectedly at the muesli, Will sighs. "That I do." Setting the bowl down, he offers Margot his full attention.

"D'you want any more _éclairs_?"

"Need an excuse to go somewhere, Will?" Margot asks, widening her eyes in faux innocence.

"I wish. There's been another victim and Jack wants Lecter to visit the crime scene."

"Does he even have jurisdiction here?"

"French authorities requested the Bureau's help for some reason, I've heard whispers that our unsub's not a national."

"And?"

"Meaning, it's probable that he's either a expat or a tourist."

" _And_?"

"Lecter knows the expat community, and if our killer's a tourist, we're fucked because he could disappear at any moment."

"So, Jack wants all hands on deck."

"The _French authorities_ want all hands on deck. They need a lead, there's already a media frenzy that's promising to get more and more hectic. If they don't identify a suspect soon, all Hell will break loose."

"Not good!"

"A bit, yeah."

"So, Jack thinks, what? That Hannibal's met the killer?" Margot inquires, unimpressed.

"S'possible. Jack wants to hear his insight on the profile and see what he can glean from the crime scene." 

"I've got to be honest, Margot, much as I hate seeing Jack tormenting Dr. Lecter, it's nice to have the heat on someone else for a change."

"No more, 'Will, can I borrow your imagination.' 'Will, you're our best shot.' 'Will, do you want to have their blood on your hands?'"

"It's refreshing, if I'm honest." Will concludes in a voice that even he can tell is unconvincing.

"Pretty glum look for a happy man, Will." 

"I don't know, Margot. I just..." Will rubs a hand roughly over his eyes, "He seems so content, you know? With his daughter and fucking _café_ and his perfect hair and perfect new life, it just seems like such a fucking god-awful thing to do. He got away from this, and Jack's dragging him back. No, no, _I'm_ dragging him back because, and I can't imagine why, he refuses to talk to Jack." "Jack will have me spout the same shitty lines about, 'Oh, you're saving lives.' and whatnot. And it's going to work because it always works because we're all half-decent people and no matter how much we wish it wasn't so, we can't put our comfort and, god-forbid, _mental health_ above the lives of potential victims. _Fuck!"_ Will picks up the bowl again, letting the feeling of cool glass ground him. 

Margot simply listens, idly knocking her legs against the cabinets as she thinks of a proper response.

"Do you...even enjoy doing this anymore?"

" _Anymore_? This job destroys me, always has. I've never enjoyed it. God, what I wouldn't give to just _quit_."

"Do it."

Will barks out a derisive laugh, "I've seen how that goes. You get away for a bit, then he draws you back in. Exhibit A: Hannibal Lecter. Only way out's death, apparently, though I wouldn't put necromancy past Jack if a case gets particularly messy."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. So, _éclairs_?"

"Raspberry, best in all of France."

"And out of France, apparently."

"Honestly, I might have been tipsy when I said that, but I'm not wrong."

"Wrong doesn't come easily to you, Margot."

"Can't imagine that it does."

* * *

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, both knocking their legs against the counter, Margot humming distractedly, Will staring at the creepy cat clock with its nervous eyes and swaying tail. 

_tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock_

Will sighs, "It was nice. Talking to him. It felt natural, easy. I haven't felt that way around someone...maybe ever?" 

"But...ever since, there's been this uneasiness, can't explain it." Will continues, tightly gripping his half-empty bowl. "A bit of déjà vu, but mainly this overwhelming sense of foreboding, it leaves me nearly nauseous."

"Do you know what it means?" Margot questions, genuinely wondering.

"I don't believe I'm meant to go back." He returned with a spiritless smile, "Better to leave well enough alone."

"Or _maybe_ it means you should definitely go back." Margot counters. "You're ritualistically self-destructive, perhaps the fact that you don't want to return means that it'll actually be good for you."

"That's sweet but unlikely. Occam's razor and what not."

"Occam's razor is inherently flawed because it assumes that this world isn't unnecessarily complicated. Just consider my theory." Margot returns with a raised brow.

Will grunts in response, studying his hands. His hands have always confused him, calloused and tanned, speckled with tiny scars. One might think they're strong at first glance, but his fingers are hesitant, hesitant and shaky. He doesn't trust them, they are not reliable, not a surgeon's hands. He remembers as a child, trying to rescue a fallen butterfly. Carefully sheltering it in both palms, shaking trembling hands lifting it, shaking trembling fingers trying to be delicate with such frangible wings, to no avail. His quivering fingers had further torn the wings and he'd dropped the creature in horror, swearing to never touch one again. 

He has always had a knack for destroying beautiful things. 

* * *


End file.
